Of Love and Deceit
by Shogunate
Summary: The path to which Christine and Erik are so ineffably bound carries them forward to joy and certain perdition. Falling petals of a lonely rose, and the haunting song of a nightingale. Their love was forbidden, their love was doomed.– Of Love and Deceit.
1. First Waltz

**Nocturne**

"_O Heaven was so close to Earth,_

_When you lied besides me._

_Never would I wish for more_

_Than thy touch, thy love…_

_Ah, how clearly I can see you now,_

_Lulling me tenderly to blissful sleep,_

_Why could I not remain there and_

_In that happiness drown?_

_Why, O God_

_Shall I weep all my life?_

_For the face I will never see,_

_For the hands I will never touch?_

_As a candle which shines too brightly,_

_My life shall also fade._

_All is dark, but I can hear thou._

_Sing, my angel,_

_I will soon come to thee,_

_Love,_

_And in thy arms I will lie_

_Forever."_

_**Shogunate**_


	2. Second Waltz

**Of Love and Deceit**

**After "Down Once More"**

"Why does love make me suffer so?" – Erik

Erik's POV:

An end to my opera. Mi vita dedicata a Christine Daae.

Fate has always been cruel to me. And as I wander in the underground tunnels of the Opera Populaire, I once more descend into the gaping abyss of death.

The stench fetidness of the rats' urine irritate my left nostril, the humid air is suffocating, the darkness absolute. Even I, who have lived my entire life in shadows, cannot see but one palm ahead of me. As a matter of fact, I am lost.

Trying to escape from that frenzy mob that desecrated my lair, destroyed my sheets of musicality, my careful studies, my beloved painting, everything, everything I had ever created; I came to the lowest level of the Opera's bowels. The last circle of Dante's inferno.

It is perhaps the most amazing of things, love. O jubilant emotion which soars the spirit only to, in a fraction of moment, cast the lover to most horrid dejection. Pity the lovers, I say. Pity me.

In the pitch blackness which wrapped itself around me, only one face would be my light, urging me to move forward, praying for my ascension. Christine.

O my beautiful angel, my perdition. You cannot imagine how cruel you were towards me. You, whose innocence I tried so hardly to preserve; my child which only I could ever protect. I loved you so much that for you, and only for you, I could offer my soul.

To cherish and hold you, angel, would make me the happiest of all men.

But this was not enough for you, was it Christine? No. That Vicomte was a far more agreeable suitor. Handsome, rich, affectionate, and comforting. That Raoul was a safe harbor in which you could port your ship, and a man whom you could trust. No violent storms that cast sublimation and doom. Yes, he was the one who could bring you happiness.

And thus you have rejected me, left with that pretty boy of yours while I stared at you both sailing away in my gondola. I thought, love, that you were mine. But it was only a speculation, a whimsical desire. Now, I am alone in this living hell and no one is besides me.

Solitude can be really painful, but an entire life shared with it can often assuage its effects. You see, humans have this amazing capacity to adapt. My mind and heart accustomed to be lonely.

Yet, solitude never goes away. It is as a constant buzz that irritates you profoundly, but the more you try to repress it, the more it will gnaw at the back of your mind, taking bits and chips of your sanity until, finally, you become mad.

Well, if my theory is to be credited, I am mad. But Christine, if ever did I commit folly, it was all for you…

Wait, my angel, can you hear it? Children are laughing, adults shouting, dogs barking, birds chirping. It is the sound of the world, is it not?

I can see it now, a gate of light. Humanity.

I pass through it and my eyes are greeted by the harsh bright of day. People stare at my strange appearance. I understand their reasons.

How often would you see a man wearing a white porcelain mask that covers his right face, whose elegant vestments are soaked in sewage water, whose hair is undone and body odor abominable?

I checked my pocket. 100,000 francs. Strange, I do not remember putting them in it. Industriously lucky, I pat the money from my salary, for running my theater was not easy when so many fools threatened to ruin it.

I buy an apple from a merchant. As I hungrily munch down that ambrosia worthy of praise, I regard the woman who stays by his side, which I assumed was his wife.

She was obviously poor, her dress appeared a size too small, with stitches here and there and shoes which had not been cleaned for weeks. But from that misery exuded an endearing candor that reminded me of my love.

Christine, I will come to you. You have betrayed me, and for that you will pay, my love. Pouvez-vous m'attendre?

Christine's POV:

My angel, believe it when I say that tears so many have never fallen from my eyes, not even when my father lied in his deathbed. The agony of being separated from your presence is all but overwhelming. Raoul finds it strange that I be possessed by such sorrow, and hushes me, cooing that the nightmare has ended, that all will be fine.

Fine. Just fine. Who is he trying to deceive?

Angel, one week has passed since I have abandoned you. Each day that passes me by feels like a part of my heart is being cut away. As Prometheus, I feel chained and while vultures lacerate my body, I will not die. My suffering will not end.

I sit now on an opulent bed, which I find too big for my personal use. Not that the bed is unpleasant. Made of red silk embroidered with gold, the cushion so soft I sink in it, this bed is the dream of all coquet girls. Precious paintings decorate my room, Persian rugs cover the entire floor and gold, gold is everywhere you look.

All is so majestic and rich that I cannot accustom to it. Me, a chorus girl, recently a prima donna, living at the house of a Vicomte. What a dream!

Raoul is very gentle. He will treat me like a porcelain vase, too delicate to be held by careless hands, too pure for anyone to dare corrupt it. He will leave for an entire day only to come at night, exhausted but with that childish smile in his lips. He will kiss me gently and inquire as to my day. Nothing much, I would say, and each one of us would return to our rooms and sleep.

Only never could I sleep.

In the night, a song emerged from the depths of my heart:

"_In Arabia there was a song,_

_That sang about a nightingale and_

_A rose whose beauty was such,_

_The entire world admired it._

_The rose, you see, was unblemished,_

_White of the purest hue._

_It would stand alone, bowed its head,_

_Trapped in its sad confinement._

_Teardrops or dew,_

_Diamonds or water,_

_The white rose wept every day._

_But one day came a nightingale,_

_Flying in blessed freedom._

_And it sang of beauty,_

_Sang so passionately for the rose so sad._

_And the rose fell in love with the nightingale,_

_The nightingale with the rose._

_From that forbidden union was born,_

_A beauty Allah had never planned_

_For mortal eyes to see:_

_A red rose."_

I had heard it from my angel, when he visited me at night. Back then, I was but an innocent 8 year old girl who had lost her father. Every night I would pray for my papa, and every night He would come. The Angel of Music.

O blissful ignorance! My father had promised me an angel to protect me, an angel from Heaven above where the celestial choirs exalted the glory of the Creator. A being of extreme beauty that would sing for me. And it came.

That divine voice which came from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating not only in my ears, but my entire body, trembling in elation at the very sound of his singing. It was so romantic.

How long did the dream last? 10 years. And the very night I starred in the Opera as prima donna, the delicate illusion which had been woven around me faded, as the Angel itself appeared before me, surging from my reflection in the mirror. The moment my hand reached for his, I knew that whatever obscure fate lied before us, we would trail it until its tragic end.

**A/N: Nothing to add. --**


	3. Third Waltz

**Of Love and Deceit**

"A soul that loves and suffer finds itself in sublime state"- Victor Hugo

**One week later**

Erik's POV:

It is midnight and a cold, piercing wind haunts the empty streets of Paris. The moon shines in its celestial frame, bestowing an ethereal atmosphere to the slums of la Ville Lumière. All is shadow, all is dark. And I feel so terribly alone.

Merciful darkness which covers all flaws, blessed are those who dwell in you! My entire life I found refuge in you, and in you alone could I trust.

Yet why do I feel so empty?

Because no longer can you protect me. No longer can I be blind. I have been scorched by love's searing blade; my eyes now open can close no more. Salvation has condemned me.

Christine!

I wander in silent night, wretched with exhaustion. No inn would accept me. My horrid visage, despite being concealed by the porcelain mask, exerted a mysterious fear upon the inn keepers, who would cower immediately and demand me to leave.

I offered them money, but they did not take it. Damn fools! It angered me terribly, but confronted with such stubbornness, I could do nothing but leave.

A year ago, I would have not hesitated to break their necks with my lasso. But my energy wanes and killing a person is rather tedious. Unworthy of my art, in fact. So I relent now in Rue Saint-Auguste, hungry yet again, cold yet again, lonely again.

No light crosses the closed windows. My torn cloak serves as a poor shield against the chilling wind and I tremble. A foreboding air lingers on the street, masking obscure alleys, hideouts of women selling their bodies.

Right now I can hear the soft moans of a prostitute floating to my ears and the savage grunts of a man gloating in pleasure. All degradation is justified by one single thing: money.

I lie if I do not say I yearned for a feminine company. But not like this. Never like this.

I pass the lustful alley, feeling emptier than before. Then, a scream.

It is a girl's scream and it comes from not far. I run to its source, pushed forward by an unexplainable urgency. I felt desperate for that girl I had never even met, unusually in panic for a life not of my own.

There, in another dark alley, a girl backed away from two drunkards. The look of fear, the stench of lust, all was so nauseating I almost turned back.

But the girl saw me. "Help! Monsieur, please help me!" she pleaded. O her voice was stained by pure desperation.

One of the men hit her on the face, the slap cracking loud in the alley. She fell helplessly to the floor, the dirty mud marring her face. "Be quiet, bitch! No one will help you. Now, be kind, and we'll be quick, mark my words. You don't need to suffer, all right? Maybe you'll like it" he snickered.

In one second, he was dead. Eyes bulged, mouth gaping in horror at death.  
I swiftly pulled my lasso from his neck and captured the other victim. Another bearded, ugly man, smelling of alcohol and unclean teeth. Such wretched visage. I made him kneel before me.

"Any last words..?"

The drunkard did not utter a word. Speechless, he looked at my eyes. Sweat trailed down his face and he began to cry.

"Please don't do this…" he whimpered. "I'll be a good man, I'll stop" his begging was irritating.

"Too late for that."

Another snap of the neck and his limp body collapsed. Pathetic worms.

The girl remained lying on the floor. I quickly checked her body, searching for bruises. Nothing but a dark stain on her cheek, where she had been hit by that man.

I lifted her from the floor, carrying her over to the closest hospital. She was surprisingly light, too light in fact. Hunger, it seemed, had left its marks upon her.

The hospital was closed, so I had no option but try yet another inn to stay. The inn keeper looked at me and the young girl I carried in my arms. A knowing smile surged in his face. It unnerved me.

"It will cost ten francs, monsieur. Enjoy the night".

He passed the key to me. Fool. I snatched it from his fingers and ascended the flight of stairs to my room. The place I was to stay was cheap, of course. And small.

Poor paintings covered the torn walls, trying to give a luxury to the room which never existed. A solitary window opened to the street, draped with thin, stained curtains. No wardrobe. One mirror. I was shocked by the presence of a bed. I had expected no more than a comfortable sleep on the floor.

I carefully placed the girl on it, and sat on a nearby chair. Stretching my body, I arranged myself into a more comfortable position and began to admire the girl at my hands. God, she was beautiful.

Silky, golden hair crowned her delicate face. Sixteen years-old, I guessed. In the brink of womanhood, but still retaining that naïve innocence of children.

Cherubim lips pouted in the most adorable way, long lashes adorned her eyes. Her delicate frame exuded an air of femininity and candidness that was all but endearing. If angels have ever descended to Earth, mon Dieu, she is one of them.

I feel tired. It is becoming more and more late, the moon has passed its zenith and now begins to descend. I close my eyes. The girl begins to snore. She seems blissfully oblivious to what happened to her. A small chuckle escapes my lips.

Finally, I find peace in my sleep.

**Raoul's POV:**

When will this madness end?

I came home, expecting nothing more than the soft embrace of my Christine and what do I find? A note perched on her vanity:

"Dear Raoul,

It is with great sadness that I bid you farewell. Forgive me, if you can, but I cannot live like this anymore.

Seven days have passed by since our departure from the Opera Populaire. Seven days? No, eternity.

Forgive me, Raoul, but I can no longer remain by your side. My eyes cry, but my heart sings in joy. I love you, Raoul, but this, this is not right.

My heart belongs to another man. I do not know his name, but my soul longs for him, as a thirsty rose yearns for water. I wither in this mansion, for he is not by my side.

Raoul, you are so handsome and rich, you will soon find a better replacement to me. But he, he cannot have this luxury. He is so lonesome, Raoul, his heart so desperately in pain. I wish to help him, to love him. And I cannot do so if I stay here.

So I leave you, Raoul, as a bird that leaves its cage. Remember our childhood days, when we wandered in the magic forest, telling stories to each other. It was our secret. And the red scarf you rescued for me. O, we were so happy!

But time passes. People grow. We are no longer children, Raoul, and although our friendship will last forever, my soul urges me to move forward.

My friend, do not search for me. I can assure you, I can be no safer than in the arms of my Angel. Goodbye.

-Little Lotte.

"Do not search for me…? Is she mad?"

This is insane! She goes after that monster, despite what he has done to her! I am here! I love her! Why is this not enough?

Damn that Phantom! That beast! He deceived Christine into betraying me!

Love him? Absurd!

Christine can't love a monster like that.

I collapse on the velvet armchair. It is late, well past midnight. My brain aches now, my body asks for rest. But how may I rest? Where have I failed?

I can give the world to her. Every wish she can possibly imagine I can buy for her. I'm the Vicomte de Chagny, for heaven's sake! I alone can give her what she wants.

Christine! You cannot wish for that maniac.

I crush the mirror of the vanity. Shards of mirror cascade to the floor, bathed in the blood of my fist. As diamonds glinting in shadow, they stare at me, mock me in my pain.

In the darkness which clouds the room, three words escape my lips: "Kill the Phantom…"

**A/N: Now it begins to get interesting. Who is the girl? Where is Christine? And Raoul? And the Phantom? Evil Smirk Reviews will be appreciated.**


	4. Fourth Waltz

**Of Love and Deceit**

**---------------------------------**

"Close your eyes…and surrender."- Erik.

**---------------------------------**

**Girl's POV:**

A voice lingers on the air.

As I tread in the dark realm of dreams, whispers glide through the shadows. Shapeless forms approach me, inviting me, seducing me as they wrap themselves around my body.

Sweet as the purest nectar, the voice flows into my spirit.

"Come closer," it says, "and surrender".

Faint, ghostly touches wander over me, brushing my hair, my cheek, my bosom, sending shivers of elation down my spine.

"Stop!" I scream. But it does not heed my plea.

Leaving trails of its caresses along my skin, so soft, so terribly soft I feel my knees bend in weakness. I try to open my eyes, but find them tightly shut.

A dream, is it just a dream?

Unable to see, unable to think. I am a slave of my own mind.

Whose is this voice that affects me so?

It does not cease its attack upon me, and I can't stop myself from reacting to it.

I blush as a soft moan escapes my throat. My head whirls with fiery lust, and slowly my head tilts backwards.

I weakly try to pinch myself and awake, but I find no strength in my hand. It falls limply besides me, powerless against the Voice. I recline backwards…

And succumb to shadows.

In my vertiginous descent, I hear nothing. Terror possesses me, and I scream.

The dream fades, the darkness replaced by a small, cheap hotel room. The smell of dust soon impregnates my nostrils, making me sneeze. Sunlight enters through a stained window, illuminating the miserable dwelling.

"Where am I…?" I rub my eyes, lifting myself from the bed which I do not remember lying on. Still half-sleep, I drag myself to the wash-bowl, conveniently filled with limpid water.

I wash my face, trying to fend off the last remnants of the strange dream. I look at myself in the mirror. I laugh. My hair is disheveled, my eyes swollen and red, a trail of drool parting from the right corner of my mouth.

"Beautiful" I sigh, as I touch a purple mar in my cheek, but I wince as a sharp pain forces me to retract my hand.

"I would not touch it were I you, mademoiselle."

_The same voice of my dream…!_

"Who is there?"

My voice, which I had intended to sound as a threat, quivers. I look around the room, searching for the intruder, but strange, I find no one.

"In many countries," a man surges from the shadows, "it is considered educated," he approaches me with silent majesty, "not to threaten hosts so blatantly."

He stops mere inches from me, eyeing me with his golden orbs.

My breath escapes me.

A foreboding hush descends the room; I find myself frozen, unable to resist the menacing glare the man directs towards me. As a feline which pries its prey, he does not move either.

He stands with an effortless grace; his posture exudes an air of nobility and mystery so enticing I cannot help but feel drawn to him.

But he seems oblivious to all this and distances himself from me, soundless as a ghost, and settles himself on a small chair, strangely undignified for such a noble sitter.

He eyes me again.

"Also, guests should introduce themselves first." he mocks.

Still paralyzed, I stare at him mutely, unable to manipulate any sound from my throat. I gulp helplessly.

"Your lack of courtesy is beginning to enervate me. Will you not tell me your name?" he snaps, making me flinch.

"Ju-" I stammer "Ju-liette, monsieur"

"Juliette…" He sings my name, and I feel my heart palpitate by the sound of such melodious chant. "Juliette, c'est une belle nom. Well, as you have introduced yourself so politely, I shall also present myself to you, Ju-li-ette. My name is…Erik".

_Erik…_

"Will you not sit? It is becoming rather tedious to see you stand so rigidly" he mocks me yet again.

And, as if a spell had been broken, I feel my muscles relax, and the breath which I had been holding for so long, sips through my lips. I hold my chest, where my heart pounds incessantly.

Feeling unexplainably weak, I sit on the bed, trying to preserve some of my dignity against such an astute man.

"I…I do not remember sleeping in this room" I murmur to myself. "Where was I last night…?"

"I can answer this question, if you wish."

_How could he hear? I barely whispered it..!_

His expression seems to darken, and the air itself becomes heavier with his black mood.

"Rue Saint-Auguste. Does this spark memories?"

Immediately, images of two drunk men flash in my mind, me cowering in fear, a masked savior. Yes, a savior who had come to rescue me in the most unthinkable time and place, an…

"Angel…" I sighed.

The man seemed to react to the word, I can hear the gritting of his teeth. He clenches his fists.

"You saved me." I look in his eyes, trying to express some gratitude. But, his eyes are cold. Dead, as burnt candles; hollow, as a dried-up sea.

"Angel…" he sings. "Why would you abandon me, angel?" Teardrops descend from his eyes, leaving a glistening trail along his left cheek.

"Why could you not stay?" He cries in agony, but his voice, God, is so beautiful! I cannot stop myself from weeping to his sorrow, taken by pity and compassion for such desolate suffering.

_The heavens cry,_

_O haunted soul!_

He shouts. And looks at me.

"Juliette…" his voice still shakes. "Forgive me, for I have behaved terribly." He approaches me, recomposed, with all the majesty he possesses. He offers his hand. "Would you care to have breakfast?"

Taken aback, I look into Erik's eyes, searching for some answer to the volatility of his mood. As before, I find none. His gloved hand still extends itself to me, inviting me to an uncertain path.

My mind beats against it, but my soul, damn my soul, cannot resist it.

"Certainly." I place my petite hand over his. "I would love to, Erik."

**A/N: SO…What do you think? What will Christine think of this Juliette?! Reviews are welcome.**


	5. Fifth Waltz

**Of Love and Deceit**

**--------------------------------**

"Think of me...when we've said goodbye."- Christine

**--------------------------------**

**Christine:**

I cannot return. I felt this the very moment I crossed the entrance gate to the Chagny's mansion, the very moment I glanced backwards and whispered my last goodbye to Raoul.

At that, I felt cold. I do not know whether it was caused by the snow that descended from the cloudy sky, or the growing emptiness that contaminated my heart. I desired to go back, regress to that which was familiar to me, but my soul urged me forward.

I glance at what I am leaving behind. Raoul. Le Vicomte.

He loves me. I know. But it is such a dreadful crime to be loved and not love in return! It is a farce, of that I am so sure. Dear friend, but nothing more, nothing!

I cannot live with such burden; I have to leave.

What lies ahead of me? What uncertainties are surely to come?

I look towards heaven, to the flakes of snow that so beautifully rivet in the wind and tears begin to fall from my eyes. The white snow melts when touching my face, the gelid air condenses my breathe.

I extend my gloved hands, trying to stop the snow from descending to earth; it is futile I know, but a shy smile perches itself upon my lips.

Is this what they call freedom?

My Angel once told me that birds, when born, do not know how to fly. Of course, I was shocked, for if a bird was born to fly, how come was it not born with that ability?

"Christine", he let out a rare smile, "to fly is not an easy task. You see, my child, to soar up high towards the sun requires great courage. The small bird does not have such brave heart at the beginning."

"But, Angel," I protested, much to his amusement. "If they were not born flying, how come they do?"

"They do so, but only after they fall. The first time, their wings cannot carry them for long, and they crash to the ground. But the second time, they go a little bit further, and once again fall. Time after time, they leap off their feet and flap their wings, going further and further. Until, before you know, they are flying away, free at last."

Free. Free.

I leave this cage, painted as a luxurious mansion, obedient servants and rich furniture; I leave Raoul, with whom I cannot live with any longer.

Everything a girl could ever wish in her life: wealth, a beautiful and attentive husband, I leave.

Why?

For my Angel. A new resolution swells within my chest, compelling me towards that man.

God, I need him so.

Not far from me, an empty carriage awaits a passenger. I call the driver, giving him a small pouch of money.

"Where to, mademoiselle?" he asks.

"To the Opera House."

I recline on the leather seat, rubbing my freezing hands. So it has come to this. To the place where it all began. To the place it all shall end. The Opera.

It approaches as a dream would to a dreamer, the soaring columns, graceful arches, Apollo's lyre crowning the edifice of genius of its architect. But the illusion wanes, and as I look towards the nest of my memories, I see no more than burnt stones and crashed windows.

The fire has consumed it all.

I walk through gap in which the entrance door once stood, aghast with the extent of the destruction. Ruins, shambles of the once glorious Opera Populaire fill the desolate scenario.

The candelabrums are shattered, the curtains have combusted to a pile of ashes. The majestic halls in which I had so long wandered are fallen to shadow and charcoal.

And the Theater. The stage! All is lost. The golden sculptures disfigured by the heat of fire, the seats consumed by flames, the chandelier, with its glorious luminance, reduced to a pile of shards and burnt velvet.

The final product of a desperate man.

But he is not to blame. My angel has no fault. It is I who have committed this crime, condemned him to panic and madness, the true monster.

I sit on the stage, carefully folding my silk dress. The setting of Don Juan still lies, by some mysterious venture of fate, intact. The basket of roses rests on the wooden floor, the red hue of its flowers accentuating in its contrast with the black shadows.

A rose. A solitary rose, laced with a ribbon of black satin. That was the peculiar manner with which my Angel told me he was happy. And God, how I longed to see that rose lying on my vanity.

Whenever I sang, I sang for my angel. He, who had so carefully taught me, so patiently instructed me, that beautiful Voice that had enveloped me in its shroud of mystery, in its promises of unearthly splendor, in its irresistible seduction.

I lie if I do not say I wished to touch my Angel. There were times I dreamt that the angel came to me in the form of a man, and I threw myself at him, longing for its embrace, its kiss.

But the very moment his lips came upon mine, and I could almost feel its breath, the dream faded. And I cried. For I knew that whatever love I felt for my Angel would never be corresponded, for that was the way God had designed.

No human was to unite with an angel. Never.

Looking back now, I realize how naïve I was. Perhaps my father is to account for such foolish innocence, with his stories about the Angel of Music, that he so often repeated when I was a little child.

The problem is, I was never able to grow up.

Papa kept me blind with his fantastic tales, trying to cover me away from the harsh ugliness of reality. He sought to preserve my childhood by trapping my mind to infantile notions of the world.

His tales spoke of beauty, and happiness, and hope, and above all, love. I delved deeper into that world of illusion, unaware of its frailty, for fate had already pulled the strings of destiny upon my father.

It was slow, at first. I hardly noticed it. A prolonged coughing, which he often tried to conceal from me. But it did not stop.

The coughing grew worse and worse, to the point that my father would collapse to the floor, gasping for air and spitting blood. His health declined, yet I refused to believe that papa was going to one day abandon me.

He did not have the strength to leave the bed anymore. He would lie there, staring through the open window, to the setting sun and the orange clouds, with that peaceful resignation of those who know their life approaches an end.

Still, I would not accept papa's imminent death. I would tend for him, bring him food and pills that the local doctor had prescribed, trying to satisfy his every need, but I still hoped that his health would improve, that he once again would play his violin for me and lull me to sleep with his stories.

I was thirteen then. And every time I would bring him the meal, I would try to put a smile upon my face, and pretend that nothing was wrong, but as soon as I saw papa in the bed, sweating of fever and sickness, my smile would falter, and my heart would cry.

I never showed this to papa. I tried to be strong for him, so that he could recover faster. I held strongly to that idea, as a desperate shipwreck clings to a rope when pulled by a gaping whirlpool.

The tuberculosis lasted for seven months. Each day that passed, each suffering night my papa had to endure, for he would not and could not sleep; each sun that rose and fell, I felt my soul die.

Until the day my father left me. I had left the house to buy some food at the local market. Some loafs of bread, honey, milk, and papa's favorite: croissants. I thought he would be pleased.

So I entered the house unaware of the foreboding silence that lingered on the air.

"Papa! Papa! Je suis arrivé" I said. But no one would answer. "Papa?"

I ascended the flight of steps, suddenly fearsome for my father.

"Papa? Please answer me, Papa!" I screamed, but deep inside my heart I knew what had happened. The moment I opened the door of my father's bedroom, I knew that he had died.

He lied motionless in the bed, his eyes shut and his face so calm and beautiful, as if tuberculosis had never set its horrible grasps upon him. Papa seemed to sleep. But no breath came out of his lips, no heart pumped in his chest.

He had left me.


End file.
